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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29394663">Understand the Undernetting</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prince_of_Elsinore/pseuds/Prince_of_Elsinore'>Prince_of_Elsinore</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(OFC is a sex worker), Adolescent Sexuality, Age Difference, Codependency, Codependent Winchesters (Supernatural), F/M, First Love, Gen or Pre-Slash, No Underage Sex, Original Character(s), POV Dean Winchester, Platonic Kissing, Prostitution, Sexual Violence, Underage Kissing, Underage Masturbation, Wincest if you squint, Young Winchesters (Supernatural)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:55:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,737</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29394663</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prince_of_Elsinore/pseuds/Prince_of_Elsinore</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>If you asked Dean Winchester who his first love was, he would tell you it was Cindy Good in the eighth grade. That would be a lie. Cindy Good was the first girl he got to second base with, but not the first he loved. He didn't love a girl until the summer of '93, when he met Suzie. He never learned her last name, couldn't be sure Suzie was her real name. Never kissed her, either. He didn't even realize it was love until he'd left her behind.</i>
</p><p>Dean learns about love. The hard way. It's not a pretty story.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester &amp; Original Female Character(s), Dean Winchester &amp; Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Understand the Undernetting</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is marked CNTW and I make no blanket promises about the content, but I'll offer these warnings:</p><p>This is not tagged Sam/Dean because there is no explicit intent in their actions toward one another. That said, if Sam/Dean makes you squeamish, proceed with caution--there are some red flags in their behavior. (Sam is 10, Dean is 14.)</p><p>Regarding underage: An adult (not the OFC) makes an inappropriate advance on Dean. This fic contains adolescent sexual fantasies.</p><p>Regarding sexual violence: brief and non-explicit, against the OFC, and briefly against Dean.</p><p>***</p><p>Title from Nico's "The Fairest of the Seasons."</p><p>For timeline reference, this takes place the summer after 15x16 Drag Me Away (From You).</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If you asked Dean Winchester who his first love was, he would tell you it was Cindy Good in the eighth grade. That would be a lie. Cindy Good was the first girl he got to second base with, but not the first he loved. He didn't love a girl until the summer of '93, when he met Suzie. He never learned her last name, couldn't be sure Suzie was her real name. Never kissed her, either. He didn't even realize it was love until he'd left her behind.</p><p>***</p><p>New Orleans in the middle of July is hell. The motel has a window AC unit that rattles and buzzes and takes the temperature down below 80 degrees only when it's been running for five hours straight. It usually sputters and dies before that point, though, refusing to turn back on for another twelve hours.</p><p>When Dad said New Orleans, Dean imagined slipping out to Bourbon Street, getting lost in the crowd, maybe even convincing some drunk tourists to buy him one of those funky green drinks. Grenades, that was the one. But instead, he's a twenty-minute walk and hour-long bus ride away from the French Quarter, in a faded pink motel off of Airline Highway. Concrete wasteland. Strip malls and warehouses and train tracks. The whistles wake him up at night. Dad gave strict orders that the only place he was allowed to go was the Dollar General a fifteen-minute walk down the road, or the McDonalds ten minutes in the other direction. Then he was out the door, off to eradicate a family of rougarou terrorizing the West Bank.</p><p>Dean doesn't see why they couldn't stick together, get a motel down there. He knew better than to ask, though. Dad probably thinks it's safer this way. Of course, that's a load of crap. Dean knows his way around every firearm in the arsenal, and he's getting good with knives to boot. Hell, he could've helped Dad with this hunt, after finishing off that thing with the nest in the cannery last winter all on his own.</p><p>His stomach sours at the memory. He shoves it aside.</p><p>"I'm dying," moans Sam from the other bed. He's spread-eagle on his back in nothing but gym shorts. "Dean, we need to buy a fan."</p><p>"You gonna pay for it?" It comes out more snappish than he means. The heat makes him crabby. Dean is perched on the edge of his own bed in his boxers, too hot to let his skin touch the polyester duvet.</p><p>Sam rolls his head to the side to fix him with his puppy dog eyes. "Popsicles?"</p><p>Well, shit. Dean's not immune to that look, nor to the promise of a sweet, cool treat. He gnaws his lip. The only pants he owns are blue jeans. He loathes the thought of pulling them back on and going outside.</p><p>"Pleeease Dean?"</p><p>"Only if you quit whining."</p><p>A minute later they're dressed and stepping out onto the walkway. It's like plunging into a bowl of soup, the air is so thick with humidity.</p><p>That's when he sees her, climbing out of a rusty jalopy and balancing two giant shopping bags in her arms.</p><p>She's tall, taller than Dean. Her straight blond hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail, showing off sharp features. Cheekbones that could cut ice. Blue eyes that are ice. The first thing that strikes Dean isn't her physical appearance, though. It's the fact that she's dressed in baggy sweats in the middle of the New Orleans summer and doesn't seem the least bit bothered by it. A second later, though, he's imagining what's underneath those sweats, because this chick looks like she has legs for miles and curves in just the right places. Like the pinups Dad doesn't know he found in the glove box.</p><p>She's got on big silver hoop earrings, blue eye shadow and dark liner. Her lips are bubblegum pink. The makeup makes it impossible to tell her age. Could be anywhere from 18 to 28. Dean thinks he knows what Dad would call a woman like her. Knows how most men probably look at her, with a mixture of hunger and contempt. Dean likes it, though, the bright colors popping on her features. She's pretty and a little scary at the same time. He wonders if her lips would taste like strawberries, like Cindy Good's did. His stomach swoops low with excitement and he springs into action.</p><p>"Let me help you with those, miss," he says, all charm. Her eyes fix on him, do a scan from head to toe. Dean has the unnerving feeling of being read like a book.</p><p>She raises a single plucked brow and hands him both bags at once. Dean staggers a little and adjusts his grip.</p><p>"Thanks," she says, in a flat Louisiana drawl. Her voice is surprisingly deep. Dean decides he likes the sound of it.</p><p>He stands awkwardly behind her as she rummages in her purse for her keys. "I'm Dean," he tries.</p><p>She doesn't even glance up.</p><p>"Guess we're neighbors," he says, as if only just noticing.</p><p>"Mm-hm." She gets the door open, props it with her foot, and takes the bags back into her arms.</p><p>"Here, let me—" Dean leans forward to hold open the door. Really it's an excuse to get a little closer. Her hoodie is zipped up to her mid-chest, and from this angle, grocery bags pushing her breasts together, if he glances down he can get a nice eyeful of cleavage—</p><p>She snorts. "Little pervert."</p><p>Dean's eyes snap back up, face flushing. She doesn't look bothered, though. Maybe a touch amused, from the twitch at the corner of her mouth. She shoulders her way past him.</p><p>Dean presses his hand against the door to stop her from closing it. "Hey, don't I get a name?"</p><p>"Thought you said it was Dean," she says, gaze impassive, and shuts the door in his face.</p><p>Dean's stomach does a little flip at the sound of it latching shut.</p><p>He can't wipe the grin off his face the whole way to the Dollar General. He even forgets to complain about the heat.</p><p>***</p><p>Dean's sprawled out on the couch next to Sam, unwrapping his second popsicle. He'd meant to pace himself, really he did, but the cold sweetness on his tongue is just too good.</p><p>"She's too old for you, Dean," Sam says in his worldly, superior, ten-year-old way that drives Dean up the wall.</p><p>"Shut up."</p><p>"She totally rejected you."</p><p>"Whatever. Least I got a good look at her tits."</p><p>Sam's face goes red. He focuses on his grape popsicle, worn down nearly to the stick.</p><p>Dean smirks. "You see her tits, Sammy?"</p><p>"You're so gross."</p><p>Dean laughs. "Tits aren't gross, dude. What's wrong with you, don't you like tits?" He pokes at Sam's knee with a big toe.</p><p>Sam swats at his foot. "Your feet smell. Get them away from me."</p><p>Dean grins and lifts his foot up towards Sam's face. "Answer the question, bitch."</p><p>Sam tries to push his foot away, but Dean's leg is stronger than Sam's skinny arms.</p><p>"You're such a jerk!"</p><p>Dean snorts, decides he's tired of the game. He drops his foot back to the couch. "Still didn't answer the question. Don't you like tits?"</p><p>Sam shrugs, stares at his lap. "Yeah. Sure."</p><p>Dean rolls his eyes. "You will. Believe me. Give it a couple years and you won't be able to think of anything but tits." He snickers. "Hey, Sammy."</p><p>"What."</p><p>"'Butt-tits.'" Dean cackles, pleased with himself.</p><p>"You're gross." Sam gets up to throw out his stick and goes to the freezer for another.</p><p>Dean thinks about the girl next door as he sucks on his own popsicle. Cherry, way better than the grape shit Sammy likes.</p><p>He thinks about the girl's lips. He's got the popsicle most of the way in his mouth and suddenly he's chubbing in his jeans. Not like it takes much these days.</p><p>He draws the popsicle back out slowly, dragging it over his tongue. He imagines how the girl next door might do it, how she might suck and tease. He thinks about her wide mouth with those plump, pink lips. <em>She's got a total blowjob mouth</em>, says a voice in his head. It sounds exactly like the jock he'd overheard saying that to his friends in the locker room of the last school they'd been at. Heat pools low in his belly.</p><p>Sam makes a loud slurping noise from his spot next to him on the couch. Dean glances over to see him practically slobbering all over his popsicle, trying to fit the whole thing in his mouth at once. The heat in Dean's gut turns to ice in a flash. He looks away.</p><p>"Dude, you're like a freakin' St. Bernard. And you call me gross."</p><p>Sam glares at him and continues his oblivious assault on the popsicle.</p><p>Something twists in Dean's stomach. He stands. "Gonna try the AC again."</p><p>He switches on the window unit and, lo and behold, it sputters to life. Dean sticks his head directly in front of the vent.</p><p>"Deeean, don't block the air!"</p><p>"Blow me." <em>Shit.</em> He really didn't mean to choose those words.</p><p>But Sam only grumbles in response. Dean glances over his shoulder at him. Kid probably doesn't know what it means, anyway.</p><p>***</p><p>The AC unit gives up the ghost the next day, because of-<em>freakin'-course</em>.</p><p>They've got the door to the room open to try to catch a breeze, anything. Dad would kill him if he saw, but Dean figures it's worth it when the alternative is death by heatstroke. But the air just hangs heavy around them, clinging to their skin. They alternate between the ratty couch and the pavement just outside. Dean honestly can't decide which is worse. There's no real difference at this point. No escape from the suffocating press of heat.</p><p>That's how the girl next door finds them. She steps out in lounge pants and an oversized tee, doesn't spare them a second glance as she goes to the vending machine for a Diet Pepsi. On her way back, though, she stops, gives them an appraising look.</p><p>"AC broke?"</p><p>Dean just nods, too miserable even to flirt.</p><p>Her eyes linger on Sam. She jerks her head towards her room. "Mine's workin'. If you wanna come over."</p><p>Dean just blinks at her, not sure he's heard right.</p><p>"Well?"</p><p>Dean glances at Sam, who's giving him the puppy dog eyes again. He hesitates. Sure, she's hot. But she's also a stranger. He's not supposed to trust strangers. Especially when it comes to Sammy.</p><p>A shadow of a smirk passes over the girl's face. "Promise I won't bad touch you. Though I dunno, maybe that'd be an incentive."</p><p>Dean's face grows impossibly hotter. He makes a mental note to ask Sam later what "incentive" means. He's understood enough, though.</p><p>The girl snorts and turns to open her door. "Comin' or not?" she calls over her shoulder.</p><p>"Dean—" Sam barely has the plea out when Dean is scrambling to his feet.</p><p>"Yeah, we're comin'. Uh, thanks."</p><p>Dean follows her into the blessedly cool room, a cautionary hand behind him to make sure Sam keeps his distance until Dean's scoped it out.</p><p>Sam lingers in the doorway as Dean does his customary sweep. It looks much the same as their own room, except there's one bed instead of two, and the space looks unmistakably lived-in. Dirty plate—reusable plastic, not just flimsy paper like Dean and Sam eat off of—on the TV stand, a couple empty beer bottles on the table. Boxes of Kraft Mac 'n' Cheese on the kitchenette counter. Pile of clothes on the floor by the bed, including a glimpse of what might be a pair of lacy underwear.</p><p>Looks ordinary enough. Safe enough. No signs this girl is really a psycho killer or a blood-sucking monster. Dean gives Sam a nod: <em>all clear.</em></p><p>The girl observes this from a distance. She gestures to the couch. "Put whatever you want on the TV."</p><p>She stuffs the clothes in the closet, grabs her dirty plate and the empty bottles, and goes to the kitchen sink to wash up.</p><p>Dean perches on the edge of the couch, instinctually not allowing himself to get too comfortable. He still needs to keep his guard up. Sam splays out happily next to him and turns on the Discovery Channel. Nerd.</p><p>Sam watches the TV. Dean watches the girl.</p><p>Her hair's in a messier ponytail today and she's not wearing makeup. It makes her look younger and more tired at the same time. She's still pretty, though. Maybe even beautiful. Statuesque and chiseled, going about her task with sure, efficient movements.</p><p>Dean's gaze trails lower. It's obvious she's not wearing a bra. He wants to bury his face in the swell of her breasts, right between the nubs of her nipples. Wants to lick them. She probably smells really good.</p><p>She glances up, catches him staring. Doesn't flinch. "You kids hungry? I got mac."</p><p>Dean purses his lips at her wording. Kids, plural.</p><p>"Yeah," Sam says immediately.</p><p>Dean frowns. If Sam was hungry he should've said something. Dean would've made him a sandwich.</p><p>"We've got our own food," he tells her.</p><p>"Dean, I'm sick of peanut butter," Sam whines.</p><p>God, why does he have to be such a baby? Dean glares. Sam is embarrassing him in front of this chick. He wishes viciously that Sam weren't here. A moment later, though, he repents at the sight of Sam's wide, hopeful eyes. He swallows guiltily.</p><p>The girl shakes a box of Kraft. "I was gonna cook this up anyway. Might as well share."</p><p>Dean doubts that. From the looks of it, she just ate. But he doesn't say that. "All right, then. Thanks."</p><p>She cooks the mac. Divvies it up onto three plates. Hands them the lion's share.</p><p>She motions for Dean to move over and sits next to him, so Dean's in the middle. He was right. She does smell good. Like vanilla.</p><p>"You can call me Suzie," she says, and stabs a forkful of macaroni. She looks over at Sam. "What about you, kid?"</p><p>"I'm Sam."</p><p>Suzie nods, looks at the TV. "Watcha learnin' 'bout?"</p><p>"Komodo dragons. Did you know their bite is deadly, but not because they're venomous or anything? They just have really toxic bacteria in their mouths."</p><p>"Gross," says Suzie, but she sounds impressed.</p><p>"Yeah," says Sam. He grins.</p><p>Dean glances between them, feeling left out. He hunches his shoulders and shovels the mac into his mouth.</p><p>They eat and watch the show without further commentary. Dean couldn't care less about Komodo dragons, even if they do have a cool name. He can't stop staring at Suzie's thigh, just a few inches from his own. Slowly, he lets his leg fall open, until it's just barely brushing hers.</p><p>Suzie puts a hand on his knee. Dean's heart jumps into his throat. She shoves his leg away from her, eyes never leaving the screen.</p><p>Dean swallows. He doesn't try anything more, but for a long time he thinks about the warm imprint of her hand on his jeans, the fleeting press of her strong fingers with those scary-long pink stick-on nails.</p><p>Suzie lets them stay all day. They find a Humphrey Bogart marathon and leave it on for hours. She moves to her bed and dozes off halfway through the second movie.</p><p>The sun has set by the time she wakes and tells them to get going. "Room might be a little cooler now," she says.</p><p>It's not. Dean lies on top of his blankets, trying to sleep. At some point he thinks he hears voices through the wall in Suzie's room, but her TV is still droning in the background so it's hard to tell.</p><p>He nods off on sheets damp with sweat.</p><p>***</p><p>Usually, Dean is grateful when strangers don't ask questions. But Suzie seems so un-curious about him it's driving him crazy.</p><p>She invites him and Sam back to her room the next day, and the next few, as the motel manager drags his feet on the AC repair. Mostly, they sit and watch TV without speaking. She makes them mac 'n' cheese or spaghetti with marinara sauce for lunch and never pries into their lives or where their parents are. She always ends up falling asleep, too. Dean suspects she doesn't get a lot of rest at night.</p><p>He's started paying more attention. One night a car pulls into the lot around midnight. From the window, Dean watches a man go into Suzie's room. An hour later he hears him drive away. The next evening Suzie leaves in her car and still hasn't come back when Dean finally drifts to sleep around 3 a.m.</p><p>Dean gets it. Not all the details, maybe, but enough. Suzie is exactly what other men would say she looks like. The thought runs through his mind over and over as he tries to sleep in the sweltering room at night. It makes his dick hard and his stomach cramp. He clutches his pillow and tries to imagine it. Whatever Suzie does with all those faceless men. Does she get down on her knees? Does she take them straight to bed? Do they talk first? Suzie's not much for conversation. Unless she's been holding out on Dean. Maybe she saves the charm for the other men.</p><p>Dean blushes when he realizes he's comparing himself to them. Suzie's other men.</p><p>He wonders if she pretends to be in love with them. When he's made himself sick with wondering, he slips into the bathroom to jerk off. He jacks over the toilet and shoots into the bowl, imagines he's coming on her tits like in the one and only porno he's ever seen. He wonders if the other men come on her tits, or on her face, or inside her. If she swallows or spits, because that's a thing he learned about this past year, in an embarrassing moment. <em>Hey, Winchester</em>, this kid had asked him during math class, leaning across his desk. Brock something. Popular kid, maybe threatened by the new guy, from the way he kept sizing Dean up. <em>You think Molly Adams spits or swallows? </em>Dean took too long to answer and Brock pounced. <em>Aw, Winchester's never had a BJ. That's okay, man, some girl'll take pity on you someday. Hey, why don't you ask Molly? Then you can tell us which she is. I bet she's a swallower.</em> Dean got the picture after that. Crystal clear.</p><p>Dean takes a cold shower before heading back to bed. Not to calm any hard-on—he's thrilled with the idea of getting off twice, if that's what it takes—but just to cool off. He feels like he's gonna vibrate out of his skin one of these days.</p><p>He's not the only one who's antsy. Sam is even more insufferable than usual. He gets like this in summer, when there's no schoolwork to keep him occupied. Dean almost feels bad for the kid. If they were in a smaller town, he'd at least take him to the local library. Sam could keep his nose in a book all day. Dean's never understood that, but he doesn't mind libraries as much as he pretends to, either. He likes reading about wilderness survival. Last year he found a copy of <em>Hatchet</em> and read half of it in one sitting, before the library closed and they had to leave. Dean's been itching to get his fingers back on the book and see how it ends. Failing that, when no one's watching he can browse the romance section and scan for the dirty bits.</p><p>But they can't go to the library here, and a bookless Sam is a restless Sam. Normally, Dean would amp up the training, wear him out with longer runs and more sparring. But the heat rules all that out, too.</p><p>So Sam just gets more and more uptight and superior, glaring at Dean for so much as breathing. Dean's dying to knock him down a peg.</p><p>He jerks off in the bathroom first thing in the morning. The usual Suzie fantasy where she's pressing her tits together for him. It gets the job done quickly.</p><p>Afterwards, he examines the strings of his jizz streaking the sides of the toilet bowl. The water is low because the tank is all screwy. He takes a piss and aims the stream at the come to wash it down.</p><p>He feels just a little guilty, if he's being honest with himself. Suzie obviously knows he's got a thing for her, but she still lets him hang around so she can't mind that much. Still, he wonders if she guesses just what all he imagines doing with her.</p><p>In the scenario in his head, though, Suzie likes it. Suzie wants him to come on her. Like the girl in the porno. It's okay if she wants it.</p><p>Dean looks at himself in the mirror. Turns his face side to side. Rubs his hand over his jaw. It's gotten sharper in the past year. More manly. Still frustratingly hairless, though.</p><p>So he's a little young for Suzie. But he's pretty hot, if he can say so himself. Girls at school certainly seem to think so. Cindy Good was a year older and she went for him. Maybe Suzie could see the attraction too.</p><p>He comes out of the bathroom to find Sam looking typically pissy.</p><p>"What took you so long? I've been waiting forever to take a shower," he complains. "I'm sweating like a pig in here."</p><p>"So no different from usual."</p><p>"Jerk."</p><p>"Bitch."</p><p>Sam narrows his eyes suspiciously. "You were… <em>jerking off</em>, weren't you?" His lips curl like he finds the very concept disgusting.</p><p>Dean raises an eyebrow, amused. "Yeah, so? Man's got needs, Sammy." He grabs the Cocoa Puffs and pours them into two Styrofoam bowls. Finishes off the box. Have to run to the Dollar General soon.</p><p>"Did you wash your hands?"</p><p>Dean slams the box down on the counter because seriously, he's sick of Sammy's shit.</p><p>"No, should I have?" Of course he <em>did</em>. But Sam doesn't know that. Dean walks over to him, hand outstretched. "Got some jizz on this one, but don't worry, I wiped it off on your towel."</p><p>"<em>Dean!</em>"</p><p>Sam's face is bright red. Dean is having a hard time not laughing.</p><p>"See? All clean!" He ruffles the hand in Sam's bed-tousled hair.</p><p>Sam shrieks. Like bloody murder. Like child abduction. His ten-year-old lungs are surprisingly powerful.</p><p>He shoves at Dean and Dean backs off, regretting it already. Not because Sam doesn't deserve it, but because Dean's ears can't take it. He can feel a headache coming on already.</p><p>"Cut it out, Sam! Geez, I'm kidding!" he yells.</p><p>Sam quiets, little chest heaving, eyes wide and furious. "I hate you!" He storms into the bathroom and slams the door.</p><p>Dean turns and punches the mattress. It's a little too firm and a pang goes through his wrist. He clutches it and sinks to his knees, suddenly feeling on the verge of tears.</p><p>It's just frustration. It's just the heat. It's just Dad being gone. Probably nothing to do with hearing Sam tell him he hates him. Not like it's the first time. Not like he's never said it back. God, everything just sucks right now.</p><p>Dean chokes down the lump in his throat. Goes back to getting his breakfast together. Considers finishing off the cereal himself, just to spite Sam, but resists the urge. He would never hear the end of it and he just can't deal right now.</p><p>Sam gives him the silent treatment the rest of the morning. Seriously, Dean's gonna vibrate right out of his skin. He gnaws his lip till it's raw and chews his nails to the quick. Something's gotta give.</p><p>It finally does, on Suzie's couch in the middle of the afternoon.</p><p>Dean couldn't even say what started it. Sam was being Sam. Dean was telling him not to be a princess. Sam started yelling, and he had to go and bring Dad into it. Dean cuffed him on the ear because Sam's <em>not supposed</em> to talk about Dad in front of strangers and seriously, Suzie's <em>right there </em>in the kitchen—and then Sam <em>bites him</em>. The little fucker.</p><p>The next second they're grappling on the floor. Dean has the advantage of size and strength, but he can't match Sam for sheer ferocity. There's some part of himself Dean can't let go of when it comes to his little brother. Sam's got no such restraint. He's clawing at Dean's shoulders and Dean swears to God the only thing saving him from some vicious scratch marks is his worn Metallica tee.</p><p>And damn, the kid is wriggly. He's nearly out of Dean's grasp, knees him in the jaw so Dean's teeth <em>clack</em> loud inside his skull. Dean circles his hands around Sam's calves and <em>tugs</em>. Hard enough that Sammy's gonna have rug burn on his back where his shirt rides up. Serves him right.</p><p>Dean smothers him with his whole body, gets him in a leg lock. Pins his wrists overhead, almost hard enough to bruise. Not quite, but almost.</p><p>Sam lets out an <em>oof</em> as Dean's full weight bears down on him. Dean makes sure he feels it. Gets the message. Satisfaction licks up his spine at the thought that Sam can only move, can only breathe, if he allows it.</p><p>Sam glowers. "Get off," he wheezes.</p><p>"You're sloppy." Dean smirks. "What'd you do wrong?"</p><p>"<em>Deeean</em>." Sam tries to buck him. Fat chance. Dean presses down harder.</p><p>Sam huffs. He's breathing in shallow pants.</p><p>"I—shoulda—bridged my hips. Made space. To push you off."</p><p>It's a good answer. Dean pretends to consider it. Allows himself one more smug moment to feel all of Sam trapped underneath him.</p><p>"Mighta worked."</p><p>Dean rolls off. Sam lies there and sucks in air. Dean sits up—and finds Suzie staring.</p><p>It's not the type of stare Dean is used to getting from strangers. The kind they get when they've broken some unspoken rule of "normal" that no one ever thought to teach them. The kind that makes Dean feel like he's given away too much. Puts him on edge for 48 hours, listening for a knock at the door or a car pulling up. On the lookout for people with sweaters and nametags and bleeding-heart eyes asking questions about where their parents are.</p><p>That's not the look Suzie's giving him. She's staring at him with <em>interest</em>. Like she's really noticing him for the first time. Dean's stomach flips.</p><p>He stands. Straightens his clothes. Helps Sam to his feet, like a good brother.</p><p>"Sorry about that," he says to Suzie.</p><p>She raises an eyebrow. "Just don't break any furniture. Or bones."</p><p>Sam is sullen but settled after that. Dean feels calm and composed for the first time in days. That's just how it works with them. Their natural rhythm.</p><p>Suzie joins them on the couch after a while, beer in hand. "Who taught you to fight?" she asks, casual. Like she's just making conversation. Maybe she is.</p><p>Sam glances at Dean. Keeps his mouth shut this time.</p><p>"Our dad," Dean answers for the both of them. "He's ex-Marines." He knows from experience to keep it short and sweet.</p><p>Suzie grunts, apparently satisfied. "Good to know how to defend yourself."</p><p>Dean relaxes a little. Maybe Suzie gets it.</p><p>"Where's your dad now?"</p><p>He tenses again. "Working."</p><p>"And your mom?"</p><p>At least she doesn't sound pitying when she asks it. Suzie's not a bleeding heart. Dean appreciates that. He looks her straight in the eye.</p><p>"Dead."</p><p>Suzie's eyes don't betray a thing. She holds his gaze a moment, then looks away. "Sorry to hear it."</p><p>And that's that.</p><p>***</p><p>The AC is fixed the next day. Dean doesn't tell Suzie. He thinks she knows, but she still comes and knocks on their door to let them know she's making lunch in that matter of fact, curt way of hers. Like she couldn't care less whether they come over or not.</p><p>Dean feels a little guilty eating her food, knowing how she pays for it. Not guilty enough to turn her down.</p><p>They're having spaghetti with meat sauce—the most exotic thing she's cooked yet—when she nods at Dean's hand.</p><p>"What's that?"</p><p>She's looking at his bracelet. A simple string of wooden beads Dad gave him for his birthday last winter.</p><p>"It's for protection."</p><p>"Protection from what?"</p><p>It's supposed to be against witchcraft, but he doesn't say that. "Against harm."</p><p>"It's Rowan wood," Sam interjects. "The berries have a five-pointed star on the stalks. Like a pentagram, which has protective properties."</p><p>Dean suppresses an eye roll. Show-off.</p><p>Suzie's mouth quirks at the corner. "Like magic?"</p><p>Dean shrugs. "If you believe in that stuff."</p><p>"Hm." Suzie trails her gaze over Dean, assessing. "What about that?" She's looking at the amulet.</p><p>Dean clasps his hand around it reflexively. "It's a gift from Sam."</p><p>Suzie's eyes flick up to his, and for the first time Dean sees a hint of surprise there. She looks at Sam, then back at her plate. Dean itches to know what she sees when she looks at them.</p><p>"Nice gift."</p><p>Dean glances at Sam. He's picking at his food.</p><p>"Yeah."</p><p>***</p><p>He and Sam are walking back from McDonalds, milkshakes in hand. Dean's got chocolate. Sam always goes for vanilla because he's a weirdo. Dean promised Sam a shake back at the start of their stay, with the warning that they could only get them once, so Sam had better choose when carefully. It's the hottest day yet, so Dean admits he's glad to get them today.</p><p>The sun beats on the backs of their necks. Cars and trucks speed past on their left as they amble down the sidewalk.</p><p>Dean's in the midst of recapping everything Suzie said and did yesterday. "Did you hear her laughing at that Carey Grant movie? First time she's laughed. I think she likes oldies. Means she's smart. Smart chicks dig old movies." It's his brotherly duty to educate Sam about girls, so he sprinkles in the words of wisdom where he can.</p><p>"Why are you so obsessed with her?" Sam asks, scrunching up his nose.</p><p>Dean scoffs. "Dude, you've seen her. She's ridiculously hot."</p><p>Sam has a fair point though. Dean's met plenty of hot girls. Made out with a few. Cindy Good even let him touch her tits, <em>under</em> her bra. Dean was nowhere near this far gone for any of them.</p><p>He wonders if it's her age. He's had crushes on a few of his teachers and babysitters. Maybe he has a thing for older women. Or maybe it's more to do with Suzie's attitude. How little attention she usually pays to him, so that when she does—well, all she has to do is look at him and he's going stiff in his jeans.</p><p>Sam shrugs. "She's not my type."</p><p>And that—that is hilarious, coming from Sammy. Dean snorts. "What's your 'type,' then?"</p><p>Sam's expression goes defensive, which is sort of adorable. His cherub cheeks pudge up when he pouts. "I like brunettes."</p><p>Dean cackles. "Sure, right. Girl's hair isn't what counts, Sammy."</p><p>Sam frowns, as if he thought that was the only thing that counts.</p><p>Dean can't help himself. He loves it when he gets Sam's head all twisted around. When he tilts Sammy's little world on its axis, sees awe and admiration or shock and confusion written all over his features and knows he put them there. He has to push. In the name of education.</p><p>"What counts is how she uses her mouth."</p><p>Sam squints cautiously. "Like, for kissing?"</p><p>"And other stuff." He's got Sam hook, line and sinker. "Bet Suzie's really good at giving blowjobs."</p><p>Sam furrows his brow, eyes shifting, searching for solid ground.</p><p>Dean'll leave him adrift just a little longer. "You know what that is, right, Sammy?"</p><p>"Yeah," he says, too quickly.</p><p>"Yeah?"</p><p>"Yeah. It's, uh. A sex thing." Sam's ears are red, and it's not from the sun.</p><p>"No duh. You know what kind of sex thing?"</p><p>Sam looks like he's about to have a fit. He's totally pink in the face. Dean muffles a snicker with a mouthful of chocolate shake.</p><p>Suddenly Sam stops short. "Have you ever—" he blurts out, then bites his lip.</p><p>Dean's eyebrows shoot up. This is unexpected. Sam's never turned the questions around on him before.</p><p>But Sam's already backtracking. "Never mind." He keeps walking, head down.</p><p>Dean laughs, but it comes out high-pitched. Shit, is he embarrassed? No way.</p><p>"I totally have," he lies. He's still not sure Sam really knows what they're talking about, so just to be certain, he adds, "Cindy Good sucked my dick."</p><p>Sam stumbles over his own feet but says nothing. He's got this stunned, slightly glazed look on his face, mouth hanging open.</p><p>Dean's not sure what he's so surprised about. Long before he was Sam's age Dean had already imagined all sorts of ways boys' and girls' bodies could fit together. And he's sure he knew what a blowjob was by the time he was ten. Didn't he?</p><p>Sam's still silent, wide-eyed. Maybe shell-shocked. Dean feels a little bad, like maybe he broke the kid's brain. Information overload.</p><p>"Uh, you want the rest of my shake?" He holds the cup out to Sam. "I'm not gonna finish it."</p><p>Sam glances at it. So, not totally unresponsive. That's good. "It's chocolate."</p><p>Dean rolls his eyes. So much for his generous spirit. "Fine then. I'll toss it." He doesn't really want to toss it, but now it's a matter of principle.</p><p>"Wait!" Sam snatches the cup from Dean's hand. "No, I'll drink it."</p><p>Sam finished his own shake within minutes of getting it. Now he slurps down Dean's just as fast. Dean stares at him, his skinny arms and legs, practically swimming in his hand-me-down t-shirt and shorts, and wonders where it all goes. He realizes with sudden clarity that someday, his brother is going to shoot up like a beanstalk and there'll be nothing he can do about it. Someday they'll be sparring and Dean won't have the luxury of holding back anything at all.</p>
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